


Serpent's Skin

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened when a friend and I changed our Tumblr URLs to "orsinoinchains" and "meredithinlatex" for a day.<br/>Heavy on the D/s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serpent's Skin

It was an age-old routine. Meredith would sit in the chair and wait for him, and when he saw her, saw her seated with legs spread just so and eyes pegged upon him just so, he would know to doff the robes, fall to his knees, and await her command.

It didn’t matter if he was in the middle of paperwork. It didn’t matter if he’d just returned from playing disciplinarian to a bunch of unruly apprentices. It didn’t matter if it was day or evening, if he wanted to do nothing more than sink into his mattress and pray for sleep, if he was furious or aggravated or high on adrenaline or crackling with just-used magic.

If he stepped into his office and found the bookshelf just a little ajar, then he knew to close his office door, slip into the hidden chamber, and attend to his Knight-Commander.

She kept her armour on, most times, her tantalising form safely hidden behind gleaming steel and tightly-woven mail. Not that it deterred him from imagining — he’d only needed to see her once, and he’d never forgotten.  
But this day… this day, he slips into the chamber behind the office wall, and gasps loud enough for the sound to ricochet off the far wall.

The material is something like dragonscale and something like silk, sleek and gleaming and moulded so perfectly to Meredith’s body that he flushes as deeply as if she’d appeared before him unclothed. Saliva pools in his mouth at the very sight — the woman who commands him reclining in her makeshift throne, hair unbound and well-brushed and tumbling over her shoulders, clad from neck to ankle in this shimmering second skin.

He is helpless to do anything but stare, drinking her in like a desert wanderer who’s finally found his oasis.

“Strip.” Her voice is like the warning crack of a well-oiled whip, and he responds as quickly as if he’d actually been struck. The robes tumble to the floor behind him as he steps out of them, steps forward, and sinks to his knees.

“What do you call me.”

“My knight. My commander. Mistress.” There is a comfort in this ritual, this repetition of phrase, and Meredith has noted how his head bows ever so gracefully and his shoulders relax ever so slightly and he seems to sink into his role the way one sinks into a down mattress when the day’s work is through. This is good ground, solid ground, the ground he requires, and Meredith always gives it to him.  
Her lips curve at the sound of the title on his lips, the title of Tevinter magisters and Orlesian nobles; she feels the heat pool in the centre of her at his voice curling around the syllables and is again amazed at how sweet it is to have this whenever she wants it.

“To me.”  
He rises so fluidly she is momentarily distracted by the grace of his limbs, the sinew bunching and relaxing just under pale, pale flesh, the sleek efficiency of his slender body.  
He is equally taken, watching the candlelight play on the serpent-skin she wore, licking lips that have gone painfully dry at the very thought of being allowed to touch this material and feel her heat under it.

They are both brought to focus by the length of deceptively-thin chain in her hands, and the elegant silver collar with its padlock latch. He kneels again between her feet, craning his head up so she could bring the open collar around it, then bending his head so she could latch it. The chain dangles from the small O-ring just under his Adam’s apple, its slack pooling between his knees.  
He can smell the serpent-skin, and beneath it, the scent of her — embrium and Orlesian oil, and the scent that only he can pick up, the primal bodily scent that tugs at his groin and makes his mouth water.

“You smell of the Fade,” she murmurs, and the lowness of her voice is dangerous. He keeps his head bowed, his heart thudding so loudly he fears she might hear it.  
“The Fade, and guilt. You reek, mage. Like a cur.”

Meredith jerks sharply on the chain she’s taken into hand, as if to emphasise the point; he gasps and sways forward with the motion but manages to keep his position. Colour inflames his cheeks, but he bites his tongue.

“Have you no words for how I look? Does the cur not appreciate the beauty of his owner?”

Dangerous ground, this. He is breathless as he answers. “You are stunning, Mistress. As always, but especially so.”

“Silver-tongued cur.” She lifts a foot with an almost idle motion and pushes it into the flesh at his groin, where he’s only just begun to stir. When he groans — _mercy? more?_ both. — she removes the foot, sets it back down, sighs as if bored.

“This skin is filthy, just like you.”

And like a puppet pulled by verbal strings, he begins to bathe her, his tongue eager as it touches the serpent-skin at her ankle and begins to lave upward, a delighted tremor coursing up his spine. The material gleams where he licks, and he aches to touch it, slip his fingers over the slick second-skin, shuffle closer to her and rub himself against it like the cur she claims him to be.

He is not alone. Meredith watches him, her face a mask of impassiveness, but her fingers and jaw clench at the thought of those electric fingers slipping up her calf, around her knee, up the inside of her thigh. His tongue is equally electric, swirling around the kneecap and travelling still upwards, but more is always better, especially with him, eager and hungry cur that he is.  
Her thighs tighten, and he feels the tension, and finds himself dizzy with want.

She spreads her thighs as he bathes the inside of one, sighing, letting her head fall back against the chair. And he takes this as permission granted, as a silent plea to do as he will, and his hands snap up to roam hungrily over her thighs and around her hips, slipping effortlessly over the slick serpent-skin, and his tongue darts for the secret place covered but not inaccessible, and underneath the serpent-skin she melts with a sweet surrender of her own.

Later they will find that the skin can be ripped, torn asunder, tossed aside, and they will find that he is only more ravenous for the taste of her when she is exposed to him, and they will find that once does not have to be enough if he is content to drive her there and back again and again, and they will find that for him to fall asleep between her thighs bathed in her scent and fluids with her collar still around his neck and her hand still loosely holding the chain is a sexy-beautiful thing that they will think of obsessively for days following, but for now, this… this is more than enough.


End file.
